Chapter II: Behaviorism From the Standpoint of a Psychologist (1)

1. THE MISSING MR. MIND

Dr. Watson practically begins his best known book, “Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist,” with the statement that he is not concerned with problems of consciousness. And one at first understands him to mean that in his capacity of behaviorist he is not concerned with problems of this sort. He knows as a human being, one supposes, that he is alive. He does not, presumably, address his books to people in a state of coma. So it would seem that, as a man, he is concerned not only with his own consciousness but with the consciousness of others; that he is like the judge who knew something when off the Bench but refused to know it when on.

As we read, however, this kindly interpretation becomes untenable.

“Consciousness ... is but an indefinable phrase.... Even if [objective proofs of consciousness] existed, they would exist as isolated, unmeasurable ‘mental curiosities.’... The behaviorist finds no evidence for ‘mental existences’ or ‘mental processes’ of any kind.... If behaviorism is ever to stand for anything ... it must make a clean break with the whole concept of consciousness.” Our thinking processes “are not different in essence from tennis-playing, swimming, or any other activity.... Meaning ... never arises in the scientific observation of behavior.”

Thus far he goes in this one book. In a previous volume[4] he merely concluded that “one can assume either the presence or absence of consciousness ... without affecting the problems of behavior by one jot or one tittle.” But in “The Myth of the Unconscious”[5] he throws subterfuge to the winds and says plainly:

“The behaviorist finds no ‘mind’ in his laboratories, sees it nowhere in his subjects ... if the behaviorists are right, then ... _there can be no such thing as consciousness_.”

Why? Because “personality ... is the reaction-mass as a whole.” Can you put marbles in a bag and shake them till the mass of their reactions becomes aware of itself? Obviously not. Accepting for the sake of argument the definition of personality as it appears from the Watson “standpoint,”--there is no argument. Logic leads us straight into nothing. This is also the conclusion of J. S. Moore, who contends that _content_ when accented upon the first syllable signifies merely _context_--not the thing inside (there is no thing inside) but the things around it. Which makes it clear that I have been guilty of gross presumption in even trying to attach meaning to “psychology from the standpoint of a behaviorist.”

This may sound like an attempt to be funny, to make cheap humor out of random extracts from a book half or not at all understood, but whether I understand psychology from the standpoint of a behaviorist or not, I was never more serious in my life. Not only Dr. Watson but many other adult men are solemnly asking us with perfectly straight faces if we dare to call not our souls but ourselves our own. And if we nod an affirmative, they smile in their beards, and imply that we must have lacked early advantages.

But it will be urged it cannot be that so large a number of university professors have gone mad. They must have some way of deceiving themselves. And indeed they have. Metaphysics has been defined as the art of befuddling one’s self methodically, and of metaphysics of this sort none are so fond as those who decry metaphysics altogether. “Reaction-mass as a whole” sounds like a reasonable expression, does it not? Abstractions always do. And yet reactions can have no mass. They are only movements, not the things which move. Try and get any meat out of a movement and see what you have for dinner.

But these fallacies do not usually travel alone. Watsonianism in particular is fond of the company of facts. It mixes up Behaviorism, as a mere study of behavior, in a vast confusion of Psychology, Physiology, Ethics and irreligion. It seeks now to blind us with passion, now to swamp us in detail--lest we remember what we are talking about.

Thus Dr. Watson’s great book bristles with facts--pages and pages of them taken straight from physiology. He divides our bodies into three groups of parts, according to function--receptors, conductors and effectors. The receptors receive impressions from the outer world and are nothing but our old friends, the five senses--eyes, ears, nose, the taste-buds of the tongue, and those areas (chiefly of cuticle) which are sensitive to touch. The conductors are the nerves. The effectors, or the bringers about of effects, are the muscles and glands. Now the glands, at least those of the endocrine or ductless variety, are comparatively new-comers in the world of knowledge. But the other things are as familiar as doctors’ bills. There have been changes in nomenclature, nothing more.

Yet these changes are significant. Receptors take the place of the senses because (in all seriousness) the behaviorist wishes to get rid of that hateful word “sense” and its implications. A similar motive must have been active when it came to naming the secretions from the ductless glands. They used to be called Hormones, meaning “I stir up.” This no doubt was objectionable, because some of the hormones do not stir us up; they quiet us down. Dr. Watson knows them all as autocoids, which has the advantage of being non-committal in this regard. What is more to the point, it implies something automatic. Let us see how they work.

But right here we are met by a lack of knowledge. The secretions from only a few of the endocrines (notably andrenin and thyroxin) have as yet been isolated and analyzed. But there is good reason for believing that they regulate, to a certain extent at least, not only the ductless glands among themselves but (through the sympathetic nerves) the action of the unstriped muscles which control the stomach, intestines and various other unconscious or vegetative processes.

Autocoidal secretion seems to be very much at the beck and call of our emotions, or else our emotions are very much at the beck and call of our autocoids; but whether you hitch the cart before the horse or the horse before the cart, the believer in human freedom need be no more alarmed over the autocoids than he is over the fact that drugs have certain effects when taken into the system. It was known even in the ages of faith that a man was not quite himself after partaking too freely even of a drug so charmingly outward mannered as is alcohol.

The behaviorism of the autocoids is more obscure. They become conspicuous chiefly by their absence. Thus the removal of the parathyroids (part of the thyroid apparatus situated on either side of the larynx and windpipe) produces convulsions. Its autocoid is therefore believed to be of a restraining type. The removal of the thyroids themselves produces cretinism, and thyroxin, their active principle (it is sixty percent iodine) was isolated only recently by E. C. Kendall, of the Mayo Foundation. Suprarenal extract (from the suprarenal apparatus near the kidneys) aids in recovery from fatigue.

As to the pituitary apparatus at the base of the brain, “gigantism is supposed to be due to an overactive anterior lobe; obesity and sexual infantilism to the lack of secretion of the posterior lobe.” (Watson.) The thymus gland (in the neck near the thyroids) is believed by Dr. Walter Timme to be linked with the pineal (which is a part of the brain structure) in a related system dominating the life cycle from birth to puberty. If the function of the pineal is disturbed in children, “there is a rapid development of the reproductive organs, precocity, and an increased growth of skeleton. It is thus supposed that this gland furnishes an inhibitory autocoid.” (Watson.)

To the absence of the puberty gland (also called the interstitial, and endocrine not to be confounded with the gonads, or true sex cells, to which is entrusted the reproductive function)--to the absence of the puberty gland is attributed the observed effects of castration, and “there is a growing tendency on the part of investigators ... to believe that man is as old as his glands.” Therefore, “since the remaining glands apparently cannot stay youthful in the absence of a sufficient output from the puberty glands, it is only natural to connect senescence or old age with the decline in the output from this gland.” (Watson.) Hence all the experiments in rejuvenation, the transplantation of glands from monkeys and goats, made from the days of Brown-Sequard (famous about the year 1889) down to those made by Steinach, Voronoff and many others of the present time. Thus the simian becomes our “glandcestor,” so to speak, whether he be our forbear or not.

But let us take leave of all this physiology and observe what sort of psychology we can get from our receptors, conductors and effectors under experimental conditions.

For convenience sake, the behaviorist calls whatever happens to the victim of an experiment the “stimulus” or “situation,” and whatever the victim does in consequence the “response.” So we will imagine that a stimulus of some sort, say the spectacle of Eliza crossing the ice, impinges upon a receptor--in this case the retina. Physically, this is a light stimulus, and for a brief instant Eliza may be said to be all in your eye. But a conductor (the optic nerve) takes the matter up and transmits an impulse (in the form of a “wave of chemical decomposition”) to the brain. Here it encounters a lot of cells, called neurones. If J. B. Eggen be right in saying that “there is nothing inside the brain but a lot of neurones,” it could not well encounter anything else.

A neurone under the microscope looks somewhat like a bush which has been pulled up by the roots. The ball of earth adhering to it represents the nucleus, or brain-cell proper. The branches are called dendrites, and in the human body they extend from sometimes less than a millimeter to sometimes more than a yard in length--in the latter case becoming what the layman usually means when he says “nerves.” Each nucleus possesses several, often a great number, and it is through these dendrites that it receives the neural, or nervous, impulse which it passes on through its axone to the next cell. There should be a small tap-root to our bush, terminating in brush-like fibres, to represent this axone. Usually there is but one to a cell, though it may send off collaterals.

We have many millions of these neurones, each one complicated beyond belief if examined in detail. But let us not venture too far into that awful tangle of vaguely definable structures where even the neurologist gropes with difficulty, and about which he is constrained to make his tentative conclusions with bated breath. But it may be well to note that neurones are of three sorts. Let us call them receiving neurones, association neurones, and sending neurones; and let us liken them to three lines of soldiers, the receivers busily getting information from No Man’s Land, the associators passing it on to the senders operating the artillery. Receptors, conductors and effectors again. But out of fairness to Dr. Watson it should be said that he calls them nothing of the sort. In fact, he thinks that “entirely too much” has been made of the association neurone, and “of the whole localization of function.” The brain is not popular with behaviorists anywhere, for sometimes it shows a tendency to upset their most cherished theories.

Nevertheless the brain is there, and Eliza is crossing the ice. The brain sees her. How? Through its receiving neurones. A soldier out in No Man’s Land holds a camera (the eye) in his hand, or dendrite, and takes her picture, which he transfers to his other hand, or axone, ready to pass on. It is like one of these very modern pictures sent by telegraph, for all he receives or passes on is a series of shocks, or “waves of chemical decomposition.” The effect would be the same if the soldiers communicated by means of hand-clasps, a Morse code of squeezes or taps,--something like that.

The second soldier (association neurone) having possessed himself of the picture, relays it in turn to the third--one who is in touch with the guns, which in this case are the muscles and glands. The truth, of course, is not quite so simple as this. There are probably nine billion neurones to begin with, each supplied with numerous arms. Any association neurone appears to be able to get in touch with every other neurone in either of the other two classes, and even the simplest picture or bit of information must manifest itself in an unconscionable number of waves or impulses, each one quite meaningless in itself. What a wild tumult of activity must be taking place within us when the battle outside waxes hot!

Nor are all the observation posts outside. Many are within the body. And from the data which they all transmit emotions and coördinate actions are born--at least so behaviorists would have us believe. The striped muscles twitch, and bones are jerked about. The unstriped muscles are stimulated to action, and the viscera are affected. The ductless glands increase their secretions, or suspend them. This, say the behaviorists, is what makes us brave; or cowardly; wild with rage or tender with love. Our bowels of compassion are moved. Perhaps we have no stomach for a fight. If we run away the vulgar will declare that we have no guts.

But we cannot always be thinking of neurones individually, so we think of them in chains. When two get in touch with each other (through the axone of the one and the dendrite of the other) the connection is called a synapse. When the chain includes all three sorts of neurones, it is called a reflex arc.

A reflex is what happens when you strike the patellar tendon of the knee with the side of your hand, with a tack-hammer, or with what Dr. Watson prefers to call “a percussion hammer.” The leg registers a kick, because the blow sets up a wave of chemical decomposition in the dendrites of the receiving neurones which are nearest concerned; the wave passes to certain association neurones, and by them is passed to the kicking (striped) muscle. That is, it passes through a reflex arc, one of the several reflex arcs which are already in working order when we are born. Which means that the association neurones here involved have somehow already been educated to relay all despatches to the neurones which operate the kick--and to none other. So this reflex arc is called “unconditioned,” and the stimulus which sets it in motion is said to be a “natural” stimulus. An unconditioned reflex is practically a tropism. Prof. Loeb ordered it to get busy and account for all behavior, human and other. It fell down on the job. We have not, it seems, enough knee and similar jerks to enable us to write a Ninth Symphony with their aid alone. Some other trifle was needed.

Dr. Watson says he has it--in the conditioned reflex. It is possible, we find, to get a reflex to respond to a stimulus which is not its “natural” stimulus. Food, for example, is the natural stimulus of the reflex arc operating the salivary glands. The mouth waters when we begin to eat. But the Russian, Pavlov, bored holes in the cheeks of a dog, brought the salivary ducts into the open, and discovered that not only would the dog’s mouth water at the contact of food, but that it would water at the mere sight of food. Then he rang a bell for several days at feeding time, and had the satisfaction eventually of seeing the dog’s mouth begin to water when the bell was rung and no food was anywhere about.

Prof. Lashley, of the Hopkins Laboratory, has since invented an instrument which can be fastened to the inside of the cheek by means of suction, so that the secretions may be led to a tube without a surgical operation--which is a convenience when the victim is human. He has thus ascertained how many drops per minute was the normal slaver, and that chocolate in the (human) subject’s hand increased it from three to five times; the smell of chocolate, five times; chocolate brought to the lips, nine times. “It may be said,” observes Bertrand Russell[6] “that modern psychology consists of the discovery by the professors of what everybody else has always known.”

Yet it must be confessed that we did not know the number of drops of saliva which lay behind the licking of our chops in the presence of something good, or that the sight and smell of chocolate were “unnatural” or “substituted” stimuli--still less that the substitution of unnatural for natural stimuli was both the foundation and superstructure of “education.”

But we know now that we can obtain the knee-jerk by blowing a whistle, or cause the iris to contract at the smell of asafœtida. We have but to flash a bright light every time the herb is introduced into the vicinity; or (if I may use such old-fashioned language), associate whistles with percussion hammers in the “mind” of the subject.

Association is all it is. If you have learned to expect to be blinded by radiance every time you get a whiff of asafœtida, your eyes will begin to protect themselves even in the dark. If the sound of a whistle leads you to anticipate a blow on the patellar tendon, your leg will fly forward--at least theoretically. To get practical results, this education must begin very early.

But I have used the words “mind,” “expect,” “anticipate,” and many expressions which imply conscious intelligence. In behaviorism all these are barred. The new stimuli are said to be “grafted” on the old stimuli, not upon the consciousness. All that can be said, then, is that when two stimuli, one natural and one unnatural, happen at the same time on a sufficient number of occasions, the reflex becomes conditioned so that it will do its stuff when the unnatural stimulus happens alone.

One other item and the mechanical foundation of psychology from the standpoint of a behaviorist will be complete. There are certain reflexes called “emotional reflexes.” These are the things we do when we are afraid, angry, or in love--for Dr. Watson traces all emotions back to one of these three. Some go further, lump fear and anger together, and give us an emotional outfit reducable to likes and dislikes.

The new-born babe, Dr. Watson tells us, is afraid of nothing but loud noises and the sudden loss of physical support. These, then, are the natural stimuli of fear. Nothing but restraint makes him angry. Restraint, therefore, is the natural stimulus of fury. To prove it, the behaviorist drops a baby face downwards on a pillow, and notes that it clenches its hands as if in the attempt to grab something to prevent itself from falling. He hammers on an iron bar behind the infant ear, and observes that there is crying and shrinking away. He grips the little arms, and a struggle ensues.

As to love, Dr. Watson is not so clear. In one place he speaks of the reaching out of the baby arms as being prophetic of the nuptial embrace. In another he describes the natural love stimulus as a stroking of the erogenous zones. These zones, to be blunt, are the genitals, the breasts, the anal region and certain other portions of the surface of the body especially sensitive to touch. Perhaps there are two sorts of love, the active and the passive; just as there may be two sorts of dislike, shrinking fear and self-assertive rage. The former professor of psychology at Johns Hopkins can hardly be blamed for not making it plain. He is not the first who has been obfuscated by love.

But whatever love may be, the love-reflex, like the fear-reflex, the anger-reflex, or the unemotional motor-reflexes such as the knee-jerk, may be conditioned by having unnatural stimuli grafted on to their natural stimuli by bringing the natural and unnatural together in the field of their experience.

Albert, for example, the eleven-months old infant of a wet-nurse in the Hopkins Laboratories, was not naturally afraid of rats, a rat being neither a sudden loss of support nor a big noise. He reached out for a rat as readily as he reached for anything else. But every time he reached, an operator standing out of sight beat heavily upon an iron bar. So the reflex arc, beginning with the ear and ending in such glands as distill cowardice or inhibit courage, grafted itself on to the reflex arc beginning with the rat-wave coming through the eye and terminating in the striped muscles that jerk the hand forward. And, as often happens, the grafter eventually won the day.

“At the first experiment,” rat and noise being presented together, “the infant jumped violently and fell forward, burying his face in the mattress--he did not cry, however.” But “at the eighth experiment,” seven days later, when the rat alone was shown, “the baby began to cry. Almost instantly he turned sharply away, so rapidly that he was caught with difficulty before he reached the end of the table.”[7]

Albert is now afraid of rats, there is no least doubt of that. You may throw your bang-bang instrument away, he will continue to recoil from rats. And not from rats only. The fear extends to furry animals of all sorts, to human hair, to cotton wool. In this instance it did not extend to the nurse, but sometimes it does. The fear stimulus is apt to graft itself on to whatever other stimuli happen to be operating.

Thus are emotional reflexes conditioned--by a performance which has a remarkable resemblance to the old method of punishing a child for wrong-doing, except that wrong-doing on the child’s part is omitted as a necessary condition precedent.

This is psychology from the standpoint of a behaviorist. From the standpoint of a psychologist it looks as if all trace of psychology had thus far been carefully left out; for psychology is the study of the psyche, the soul, of the conscious self, or that part of the self which has at least the capacity of becoming conscious. Dr. Watson says not. He thinks that psychology is the study of the reaction-mass. Anyway, he is convinced that reaction-mass psychology is all the psychology needed to explain everything. Mr. Mind may be missing, but he never will be missed. “The behaviorist asks for nothing to start with in building a human being but the squirmings everyone can see in the newborn infant.”[8]

It is not asking for much, so we will now let him try.

2. AN UNDECIDED SYNAPSE

Eliza is still crossing the ice. The spectacle (in the form of a series of waves of chemical decomposition) is on its way, through reflex arcs, to striped and unstriped muscles; to ductless glands; to effectors, in short. It is time that some action ensued, that behavior on Eliza’s part resulted in behavior on the part of the spectator.

Let us suppose that the spectator most interested is a bloodhound. “The behaviorist,” we learn from Dr. Watson[9] “recognizes no dividing line between man and brute,” save (he adds later) perhaps in the matter of “language.” As the occasion here affords no time for talk, a bloodhound will serve as well as Senator Borah. Now what will the bloodhound do?

Were his reflexes unconditioned, he would do nothing of any consequence. On the unlikely chance of Eliza throwing a stone and hitting him on the patellar tendon, he might do a knee-jerk. Or, should her shadow come between him and the sun, the iris of his fearful eyes might contract. But none of these things happen. Eliza furnishes no natural stimuli upon which an unconditioned reflex could act. Prof. Loeb, with all his tropisms, would be able to bring no real drama about.

This is a Watson bloodhound, however--a trained dog. All sorts of unnatural stimuli have been grafted upon his reflexes. For one thing, he has had the sight of little girl and the taste of little girl brought simultaneously into his experience a great many times. So the glands in his cheeks advance immediately from a salivary output of, say, five drops per minute, to some forty-five. He probably snaps his jaws, a “seeking motion” prompted by the emotion of love--for meat. Not only that, but he bounds forward--another seeking motion, which was once, I presume a puppy squirm. Anyway he bounds forward, and Eliza is caught. Or else he does not bound forward, but stands and sniffs, whines, or gives tongue, thus bridging the space between animal and man, but flatly refusing to attempt to leap the space of open water between dog and Eliza’s cake of ice.

But why? Why does not the dog act automatically in obedience to the waves of chemical decomposition faithfully transmitted to his effectors? The villain of uncertainty lies in that intermediate set of neurones--those association neurones which Dr. Watson thinks have received already altogether too much attention. Some of their dendrites have made synapse with axones laden with the fear of the cold wetness of ice-water, and have communicated, not with the leaping but with the sniffing, whining and baying muscles, leaving the legs merely trembling.

What? Have the association neurones some choice as to the synapses they shall make? Is it left to them to say which, of a multitude of differently charged axones, their dendrites shall shake hands with? Does not mechanics govern the connection which the association neurone effects with a million waiting dendrites already linked with a million different effectors? Is our soldier in the middle row permitted to suit himself as to what listening-post he shall get in touch with, and is he then allowed to do as he likes with the information?

What was lately a mere relay instrument seems suddenly to have been endowed with strange powers. If ever an arrangement was devised to look like the physical embodiment of consciousness and free will, this certainly is it. No wonder Dr. Watson would prefer to have us regard these brain areas as vague “silent” ones, wherein no function can be “localized.” A behaviorist who should lose his unconsciousness would be more frightened than was Peter Schlemihil when he lost his shadow to the devil. The mere suggestion that the association neurone might be the Achilles’ heel of insensibility must have shocked many a conditioned reflex back into infantilism. Dr. Watson remained and remains calm and aloof in the midst of his “silent areas.” But others bestirred themselves with considerable zeal if not discretion. The problem was to find some purely blind and mechanistic agent capable of regulating the resistance of the synapse.

For that is the best way to think of it--as a resistance. A neural impulse will go farther in a given time along a simple nerve than it will along a route interrupted by neurones with little gulfs between them. Not only that, but when it comes out it is found to be measurably weaker than when it went in. Almost immediately it picks up again, and goes on, full speed ahead, as if somebody had stepped on the gas. How this little miracle is accomplished, nobody knows; nor whence comes the added force. Doubtless, however, it comes from the body in some perfectly natural and ascertainable way. Certainly it has nothing to do with the will.

Has the synapse? That depends upon what causes its resistance to vary. The association neurone itself cannot possibly be the will. The very fact that it is observable under the microscope proves that. The most hopeful field of inquiry, therefore, is that of the resistance which is offered the neural impulse on its way from one neurone to another. If this resistance varies--and it does--it is possible to conceive how the disturbances from the outside world may be sifted, some ignored and some allowed full play in the responses which follow. Here would be Psyche, locking and unlocking her doors. I do not say that this is exactly what happens. Our knowledge of the brain, though vastly more complete than it was ten years ago, is still far too fragmentary to permit of the localization of function to this extent. I am only offering a hypothesis to explain the workings of a belief arrived at in quite another fashion from the one we are following here.

The synapse offers the least resistance in what used to be called the field of conscious attention; and by fancying that attention moved about from one brain-area to another without constraint and in conformity with some non-physical law, we used to, in the good old days, be able to picture free will in action--not with much pretense to accuracy of detail, but in a way which was at least intelligible.

Physical scientists never liked this loose-footed field of attention. If it moved about, they wanted to know what moved it. Even if attention be only an area of super-“neutrition,” it could hardly move without force--a fact which some psychologists, desperately anxious to be free but having no force to put at the will’s disposal, have tried in vain to get around.

But behaviorists will have nothing to do with conscious attention, free or bound. And as it was obviously necessary to find something to regulate synapsial resistance, they proceeded to find it.

It was soon discovered that the neural impulse, having once traversed a particular route, found the way thereafter easier, just as we find it easier to walk through snow after somebody has broken a trail. Repeated synapses, therefore, may be left in charge of Habit. But there has to be a first time. Habit, itself, depends upon this first time for its own direction; for habit follows the line of least resistance which this very first time creates. And the first time, the time of times, which determines all other times by wearing the initial path through the cranial snow, is--behavioristically speaking--determined by Chance!

What behaviorists wanted was to have nothing determine the first synapse, and not being mathematicians they fell into the error of supposing that chance was nothing, or the next thing to it. In reality they could not have made a worse selection. But, granting their premises, there was really nothing else to choose.

But let us call to the stand a distinguished witness as to the reality of the choice having been made. Chance leads me to select Prof. C. H. Warren, whose “A Study of Purpose” was first published in the _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific Method_.[10] It chances that I have access to certain passages from this paper. Also he happens not to be a thoroughgoing behaviorist, as may be seen from the fact that he speaks of “purposive action” and of “ideas.” Bertrand Russell is of the opinion that there is only one thoroughgoing behaviorist in the world--Dr. Watson, to wit. I even hope to show that Dr. Watson steps out of his rôle in certain desperate pinches. But Prof. Warren is sufficiently mechanistic to warrant his being heard. He says: “The notion of purpose arose from a certain definite type of human experience. The typical purposive experience consists of a thought of some future occurrence followed by a series of actions which culminate in the very situation which the original idea represented. A human act is said to be purposive when it is preceded by an idea representing the situation which the act itself brings about.”

Not quite as clear as a crystal, but it means that I light my pipe, not because I want to smoke but because I foresee that I will light it. Dr. Watson says practically the same thing, only he points out that the motions which provoke desire are small, observable only by means of instruments. “Visceral phenomena,” for instance. And he makes the statement thoroughly behavioristic by adding that these visceral phenomena _are_ desire, the only kind of desire which exists. But causes must precede effect, so Prof. Warren is trying to make “foreknowledge” serve for the needed something to touch off the visceral phenomena and bring desire into being.

He goes on to describe how he turns on the electric light in his study--not because he wants to read, but because he foresees that he is going to press the button and that then there will be light--in a physical sense, at least. He admits “desire” into the realm of being only after the action has begun, and explains it as a “kinesthetic image,”--that is, an image derived from the muscular sense. Which means that he begins to want to read, and that I begin to want to smoke, only after our muscles are on the way to produce smoke and light in available quantities. And he further testifies. “If the thought of an action leads to the production of that particular action ... rather than to any one of the thousands of other kinesthetic experiences, the reason is that a definite association has previously been formed between this particular thought and this particular impulse. The origin of such an association _may be attributed to chance occurrence_.”

It is interesting to speculate upon what would have occurred had Prof. Warren chanced first to associate the electric light button with kinesthetic experiences originating in his feet instead of in his hands. What if he had been standing on his head amusing the children on that momentous day? Or, since he probably made his first acquaintance with electric light early in life, what if when playing circus as a boy he had accidentally _kicked_ the button from “Off” to “On”? Obviously he would have obtained the fateful foresight that kicks will produce light. And he would have been destined all his life to play the acrobat before ever the kinesthetic experiences of his muscles could instigate in him the desire to read after dusk. Nor is it possible that he could have been rescued from his fate save by another chance experience yet more kinesthetically violent.

“The synapse,” says Professor Pillsbury, sensibly enough, “is the point where action leaves its impress upon the nervous system.” But he does not grow lyrical about it. For lyricism we must go to Miss Clara Stevens, a real behaviorist. She thus deposes and sings in _The Open Court_:[11] “Here [in the synapse] lies the basis of character and destiny. No need of a recording angel to set down our shortcomings against us. The mystic synapse is recorder; and avenger as well. Its use renders it all-powerful ... its neglect bars further way for either temptation on the one hand or profitable deeds on the other. We can only act and think in the future as we have habituated the synapse in the past.”

Surely the lady has allowed her enthusiasm to carry her too far. How can we have anything to do with the habituating of a synapse which is governed by chance? She tries to find a way out by maintaining that the original neural impulse may be determined “by such a material fact ... as nutrition supplied or withheld by the cell-body.” Does the cell-body, then, have a will of its own, so that it can either issue or withhold supplies? That were power indeed. And she speaks throughout her article of “mystery,” “inclination,” “motives,” “ambitions,” “tolerance,” “bigotry,” “principle,” “idealistic acts,” “clearness of judgment,” and “firmness of purpose.”

I have wronged her. Here we have no behaviorist, but a good woman trying to be a behaviorist but unable to leave all her commonsense behind her--a woman born, happily, without a trace of logic, and spared by chance from acquiring any. Not that Miss Stevens is one whit more illogical than is Dr. Watson. She is merely less obscure. On pages 319 to 321 of “Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist” we are given a list of six “determiners of acts,” and told that “of course the most important determiner is the life-history of the individual.” And the other five are mere portions of life-history. Dr. Watson is fond of the word Genetics, yet he carefully avoids the subject of true beginnings.

And Eliza still is crossing the ice. The bloodhound still is doing something or nothing. Somehow, with all this “psychology” and with all Dr. Watson’s mass of reactions at our disposal, we cannot get things to move. It will be necessary to try again.

3. ELIZA DOES NOT CROSS THE ICE

“The behaviorist,” Dr. Watson assures us,[12] “can take [the] squirmings of the new-born--his unorganized finger movements, the movements of his arms, legs, feet and toes, the squirmings in his trunk, and weave them into highly complicated acts of sport, of skill--such as driving a nail with a hammer, carving with a knife, shooting with bow and arrow, or tennis-playing, climbing, crawling, running and walking. [He] can take the squirmings of the throat muscles, and weave them into those highly organized acts we call talking and singing--and, yes, even thinking. [He] can take the infantile squirmings of the gut--the unstriped muscular tissue of the alimentary tracts, diaphragm, heart, respiration, etc.--and actually organize them into those complicated emotional responses we call fears, loves and rages.... Give [him] just one hundred ‘squirmings’ ... and let [him] tie them together by [his] methods, and [he will] have more than enough.”

This is a comprehensive programme; if it is carried out it ought to be able not only to get Eliza across the ice but to produce the whole play of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Certainly one hundred squirmings are enough--enough of squirming. Their mere combination would produce an untold number--of squirms. And lest some might doubt as to this, Dr. Watson calls attention to that mathematical formula known as “factorial n.”

By factorial n one can determine the number of ways in which a given number of things can be put together. The calculation is accomplished by taking the given number and multiplying it by a number one less than itself; and then multiplying this result by a multiplier less by one than the first multiplier; and so on, the multiplier shrinking until it reaches zero. For instance, how many ways are there of arranging six books upon a shelf? The answer is amazing enough. For six times five times four times three times two, equals seven hundred and twenty, and we have limited the combinations to arrangements along a single straight line. One hundred squirms may be combined in enough different ways to satisfy the most captious. Factorial one hundred would, if worked out, look like an inter-allied debt.

But are squirms all we are looking for? What does Dr. Watson mean by “those complicated emotional responses we call fears, loves and rages?” He has used such words before, and it is time he were called to an account. There is no such thing as consciousness. Can there still be such a thing as an emotion? Yes, says Dr. Watson.

We are now in the presence of one of the most preposterous attempts at hocus-pocus ever recorded in the history of the human race. William James prepared the way by saying, “We feel sorry because we cry, angry because we strike,” etc. But with James there was always the possibility of assuming that an emotion is what we feel of the various motions involved. At worst it was but the natural order of things reversed. And in James, if one does not like his philosophy of the moment, the totally different philosophy of some other moment is never far to seek. But now that there is no such thing as consciousness, there would seem to be no way of feeling even a motion. Ergo, an emotion is merely motion. Squirms. The behaviorist asks for nothing else. Does he not?

“An emotion,” says Dr. Watson,[13] “is an hereditary ‘action pattern’ involving profound changes of the bodily mechanism as a whole, but particularly of the glandular systems.” This is at least consistent. An emotion is a group of motions which have been somehow linked together into a pattern by reflex arcs before we were born. He then speaks of emotion as a raising of the “bodily tone,”--that is, a speeding up, an increase in the general average and celerity of motions. Still consistent, however absurd. But why did Albert, the eleven-months old infant of that wet-nurse at the Hopkins Laboratories, “turn sharply away” at the eighth experiment, when the rat alone was shown him? Because he had learned to associate rats with a loud noise of which he was afraid. But does not this imply that he _disliked_ the noise?

By a wild stretch of the imagination, I think I can almost see what is in the behaviorist’s mind when he bids us believe that like and dislike can exist in a creature without consciousness. He means that there is no like or dislike about it; that what we call likes and dislikes are certain chemical changes which make us move either towards or away from objects. Tropisms, in short. I do not quite see how the mechanism for such phenomena could be arranged, but this may be merely because the mechanism of a tropism is too complicated for my comprehension. Likes and dislikes vary so much even when the same objects and the same people are involved. We are not simple in the way that a mariner’s compass is simple, its north pole always liking the south pole of a magnet, always disliking its fellow.

Consciousness itself is a complicated matter. For instance, we are never directly conscious of it; we are only conscious of objects. Our inmost self can only contemplate that which is not our inmost self. The eye does not see the eye, though it can observe its reflection in a mirror.

Things also happen of which we are not centrally conscious at all--things, for example, to which we are paying no attention. They yet have their effect. Can likes and dislikes perform their functions, then, without our knowing anything about it? I am for the moment quite willing to admit it--in the case of Dr. Watson. For all I know to the contrary, he may never be conscious. He would not be the first epistemologist who has made such a claim. But he does not claim just this. The behaviorist finds no consciousness “in his laboratories,” none “in his subjects.” He implies that _I_ am never conscious, and there I know he is wrong.

Now since consciousness exists, in me at least (the reader must speak for himself), it probably has a function. So far as I am concerned, it is the one important--the only important--thing in life. Why, then, try to leave it out of the explanation of Albert’s acquired dislike for rats?

It might have been well enough to leave it out of the description of Albert’s behavior. If behaviorism were merely what its name implies, the detailed study of the way people other than the observer behave, it might be useful and certainly would not be ridiculous. But it seeks to be psychology and philosophy as well. It assumes, as we soon shall see, to instruct us in ethics and to overthrow religion. It fancies that it has deprived us of will.

Your consciousness and mine are of course two different phenomena, severed by the gulf which yawns between _meum_ and _tuum_. I do not know that you are aware in the same way that I know that I myself am aware. I merely assume that you are. You look much like me. You behave much as I do. Therefore, as an act of courtesy, I grant that you are probably sentient and know what you are about--for the simple reason that I feel sure that I am sentient and know what I am about.

But all I am positively and subjectively certain of, as to you, is what I observe you to do. This observation may be extended, with your permission, to your insides. I may insert tubes which tap your glands. I may induce you to swallow rubber balloons, which I then fill with hot water (an experiment mentioned by Dr. Watson), and note the resultant reactions upon your muscles, smooth and striped. Still, all I know about you is what strikes my senses, which in the last analysis resolves itself into motions, large or small, of your body and members. The behaviorist’s contention that an individual is merely the sum of his acts fits you well enough from my point of view. Were I not conscious myself, I would never even dream that you are conscious. If I did not reason, I would not be wise enough to suppose that you do. Did I not feel emotion, pleasure, and pain, I would be the last person to accuse you of feeling them.

Now Dr. Watson, when he assumes that because he finds no consciousness in his subjects there is therefore no such thing as consciousness, is entirely justified--if he is himself an unconscious man. But I fancy he is merely paying us the compliment of confusing himself with us. He is unable to put his hands upon _our_ minds or feelings because they are forever hidden within us, and will never, never, never permit themselves to be isolated, taken apart and chemically analyzed. That which is objective is conduct--it is not feeling. Certain light waves are felt as redness--but the waves are not the redness. Outside ourselves, everything of red exists, saving and excepting only its redness. Now is or is not redness an important part of red?

The brain is indeed but a few billion neurones, slightly damp. Dr. Watson, fumbling among them, sees only certain motions of matter. Naturally he sees no mind. But he modestly forgets that all the while he is observing these motions of ours and attributing them to other motions, and these to yet other motions, and so on _ad infinitum_, he is using his own mind--and a very ingenious mind it is, thus to reason itself out of existence. We all remember how granny used to lose her specs and look for them everywhere--through the very specs in question, which were all the while on the end of her nose.

Consciousness is a fact of consciousness, the most obtrusive fact in all the world. But it is not a fact outside of consciousness. There it is only an inference. Should Dr. Watson get hit on the head by a brick falling from his laboratory chimney (which God forbid!), he would not be immediately able to observe whether a dog’s salivary secretions were increased by the sight and smell of chocolate or not.

Knowledge of glands can “amplify our conception,”[14] says Levine, “but it by no means abolishes the need for a mental state.”

“Not even by poetic license,” adds Sidney Hook,[15] “can the earth be created through a deft masonry of its derivative effects.” Neither can the mind. Or as J. R. Kantor, of the University of Indiana, expresses it in his “Principles of Psychology,”--“The writers who hold such doctrines [that psychology is a matter of neuro-muscular or neuro-glandular responses] inevitably face the consequence of neglecting the description of most of the actual content not only of human but of animal psychology.”

Says William James,[16] “Cases ... prove the existence in our mental machinery of a sense of present reality more diffused and general than that which our special senses yield.... Nothing would be more natural than to connect it with the muscular sense.... But our interest lies with the faculty rather than its organic seat.... Something in you absolutely _knows_ that result to be truer than any logic-chopping, rationalistic talk, however clever, that may contradict it.”

Naturally, James H. Leuba, professor of psychology at Bryn Mawr, takes exception to such language on the part of James. Prof. Leuba has been attempting--in his “Psychology of Religious Mysticism”--to prove that holiness is a form of hysteria. He uses the old method of those who would define red without taking account of redness. That is, he leaves holiness out of the question, and then shows that the residue and hysteria (whatever that may be) have much in common.

“It is fortunate for science and philosophy,” he says in a footnote to page 293, “that this passage does not represent William James completely. It expresses only one, or perhaps two, of the several moods or attitudes of this gifted writer.”

This is quite true. The passage does not represent James entirely. I know of no passage which does. But does saying so dispose of the attitude? The reader must judge for himself whether he has any inner conviction, or state, which will warrant him in saying he has it. Well may Prof. Kantor ask, “Is it not the attempt to biologize human phenomena which has resulted in handing over to novelists [to say nothing of novelists’ brothers] the sole guardianship of the problems of human behavior and human personality?”

And since we have now allowed novelists to get in, we may as well listen to Stewart Edward White, who is not only a novelist but a journalist to boot. And he complains that “it is the habit of science to thrust in the background that which it is unable to weigh and measure and understand, which is the same as saying that it is the habit of science to be unscientific.” It is certainly the habit of Dr. Watson. The hunting of big game seems to have given White most accurate powers of observation. Lions have this advantage over fallacies--they are able to kill off those who do not see them right and in time.

George A. Dorsey, whose “Why We Behave Like Human Beings” I shall venture to take a shot at before I finish, attempts to come to Dr. Watson’s rescue and to save emotion for behaviorism without admitting any of its troublesome implications. So Dorsey tells us not to be puzzled; that emotions are like any of the other circumstances which go to make up a situation to which our mass of reactions must react. We “feel” them, he adds. Now as Dr. Watson’s main contention is that we do not feel them, the admission of feeling is like permitting a wooden horse to be carried into the mechanistic Troy.

It may be argued (but not by behaviorists) that though Dorsey is not talking good Watsonianism, he is at least talking sense. And of course he is when he speaks of emotion as a feeling. But he is talking nonsense when he claims that emotion is a factor like any other factor in a situation. And for this reason. The other factors may be viewed both objectively and subjectively, while if we attempt to objectify an emotion--to drive it into the open--it ceases to exist. It becomes a bundle of its own causes--autocoids, or what have you? Or of its own effects--yowlings, scratchings, clenchings of fists, grittings of the teeth, and other alterations in bodily positions, tensions, together with such chemical changes as may accompany them.

The fact that certain secretions from the ductless glands keep pace with certain emotions does not even prove that secretions cause emotion. An emotion that can be felt may cause the secretions. Still less does it prove that the secretion is the emotion. A scolding by your grandmother may also give you an emotion. Does that prove that the emotion was your grandmother? Emotion tends to release adrenin from the adrenal apparatus, which in turn acts upon the liver’s surplus supply of sugar. This sugar gets into the blood, and the increase of sugar in the blood is therefore evidence that you have experienced an emotion. Even if you want to say that what you felt was sugar, need you add that the feeling _was_ sugar?

A cat, we will say, is sitting on the table. Can we also say that there is an emotion sitting there beside the cat? An emotion belonging to you or to me, and not to the cat? Let us suppose that the cat has just upset a vase which you and I both prize. Behavioristically speaking, our reflexes are similarly conditioned in regard to it. So we both are grieved.

The cat exists subjectively within us (or at least within me) in the form of a group of ideas of cat--or as Dr. Watson would insist, in the form of certain squirmings of particles, members, atoms, and such things. We seem to experience cat as a group of sensations of form, color, of cat-movements, etc. But if I shut my eyes, put cat out of my mind (i. e., shut off cat-stimuli from my receptors), I seem to cease to feel or think or to be aware of cat. Then, from some remark you make, I infer that you have kept your eyes open, and are still cat-wise _en rapport_. So I infer that your awareness of cat (no matter what “awareness” is) does not depend upon my awareness, or even upon your awareness of my awareness. So I assume that the cat has an objective existence, outside of us, and is a real cat. I assume also that the cat itself is the cause of our awareness of it; and I feel certain that while there may be as many awarenesses as there are people who are aware, there is only one cat in the room.